Events On the Night of the King's Birthday
by Jack of None
Summary: [Final Fantasy 6] Edgar and Locke escape from the King's birthday ball to talk politics and drink wine...but mostly drink wine. The court secretary, attempting to finish some latenight work, records the event for posterity. EdgarLocke, slash


I am not an eavesdropper by habit. There is a certain breed of palace staff that cultivates the hobby of listening at keyholes; ordinarily I eschew such vulgar activities, but the opportunity in this case was far too intriguing to pass up.

In my defense, I was merely doing my job and it was the King and his companion who decided to invade the library in the middle of the night with a bottle of wine each. I was somewhere in the back of the stacks, pouring over some records left by King Edgar's unfortunate father -- it had been quite a while since the death of the previous king, but his passing had left many mysteries behind him and I am nothing if not diligent. It was King Edgar's birthday and the entire palace was holding a proper celebration to mark the occasion. I had attended a bit of the festivities, but being a quiet sort of fellow myself, I had retired to the library quite early to finish my evening's work. It was a little past midnight by my watch when His Majesty swooped into the library, dressed in full royal regalia and looking quite relieved to out of the crowd. He pulled a chair out from one of the library tables, sat down, and set a bottle of wine down on the table with a thump. It was a very good bottle from a winery in Kohlingen; I'd negotiated the purchase of it myself.

At this moment, a fellow I did not recognize bounded down the stairs, carrying his own bottle. He was a few years younger than His Majesty, I guessed, an agile, fine-featured lad with an easy grin and mousy blond hair that was barely held back by a bandana tied around his head. This singular accessory contrasted oddly with the formal outfit he was wearing. I gathered they had just come from the ball that was being held in the main gallery; I was focused on my work and since neither appeared to have noticed me, I remained where I was with a mind to continue organizing the records.

"I can't stand this flash getup, Edgar," said the fellow with the bandana, indicating his clothes. I was taken aback to hear His Majesty so informally addressed. He punctuated this remark by pulling out the chair opposite His Majesty, sitting down, and setting his feet on the table.

"You're right," replied the King, smiling. "It doesn't suit you in the slightest."

"Right." At this point the other fellow produced a pair of wine glasses seemingly from nowhere, both stamped with the royal insignia of the House of Figaro.

"Plying your trade under my roof?" the King said wryly. "Why, Locke, I should call the guards on you."

"Appropriating a pair of glasses for the personal use of the King and his informer hardly qualifies as treasure hunting," the other lad (Locke, apparently) said, and began to work the cork out of his bottle with a knife concealed in his shoe. At the word informer I must confess my interest was piqued.

"Breaking into the Imperial delegate's chambers and taking his briefcase hardly qualifies as 'treasure hunting' either, but I seem to recall you did it anyway." At this point the fellow called Locke threw the cork at His Majesty's head.

"My intentions were perfect," he sniffed. The King laughed again.

"All right, all right. Well, at least we're out of that blasted ball." His Majesty poured a glass of wine for himself, and leaned back. "And now we can talk politics. No one will be in the library at this hour. Not on a national holiday, at any rate." At this point I probably should have corrected the King's mistaken notion, but I stayed rooted to the spot. Curiosity, at this time, overwhelmed common courtesy.

"Politics," said Locke, looking slightly disappointed. "Right, politics." He poured out a measure of wine. "Well, you've mentioned the briefcase. All the documents are being copied as we speak, and I'll have it back in the fellow's room before he notices it's been missing. There's some real raw stuff in there -- nothing definite, but they have their eyes on Doma, it seems." At this point, Locke had finished his glass of wine, and he refilled it. Throughout the entire speech neither the bottle or the glass had left his hands. "I'll open negotiations with the King of Doma. They need up-to-date machinery if they're to have any hope of defending themselves."

"And that's where Figaro comes in." The King set his glass down, and folded his hands. "I'll fund the work if you can make sure it's not traceable to me."

I must confess I was a bit stunned at hearing a deal such as this being discussed so lightly. Though he makes no secret of disagreeing with the Empire, His Majesty has always maintained a steady alliance between the two powers. I had not thought that he might be collaborating with rebels, but here he was talking of subterfuge as though it were second nature.

Some members of our staff might have been horrified, or angry, that our leader was engaged in such underhanded activities. Personally, I was merely miffed that I hadn't been let in on the plot yet. I am the court records-keeper; I should be entitled to know these things.

"All very hush-hush, right," Locke replied. He swirled the wine in his glass thoughtfully. "I'm working capital here, you know. The Empire will have my head if I'm caught."

The King looked chagrined. "I'm sorry. I...I know you're out there risking your life for us, while I sit here in the palace, safe as can be --"

"No, no, I didn't mean anything by it," Locke hastily interjected. "Just stating facts. Risking our necks is a way of life for folk like me. It's different for you. You've got your people to think about."

"My people..." The King leaned back in his chair, and sighed heavily. "And who's to say I'm not just putting them in more danger? Sometimes I think my brother had the right idea."

Here the informer Locke reached out his hand, but drew it back almost immediately as though he had thought better of it. The look of helpless sympathy on his face was rather touching.

"It's...I wouldn't think that," he said, finally. "Everyone knows Figaro couldn't stand up to the Empire -- they haven't got the manpower. And you can't get eaten up by them either." I heartily agreed with the informer on both counts.

"But if it came out that I was collaborating with Returners...it would be instant war," the King said, refilling his glass of wine. "And we'd suffer worse than Maranda."

"It's a wise risk," Locke replied. "You have to protect the people you love."

There was a very long pause after Locke said this, during which the King merely looked at him very intently, silent and compassionate. Locke averted his eyes and pretended to be very interested in the bottom of his glass. He had obviously just said something with private meaning, and seemed to be somewhat flustered that the conversation had taken a rather sudden turn for the intimate.

"Politics is like a game with loaded dice, isn't it?" Locke said, standing up abruptly and walking over to one of the library shelves. "No one ever seems to win in the end."

Locke pretended to be examining the books on the shelves, but he seemed to be trying to regain his composure. Now that he was closer, I could see that he was blushing. I held my breath and shrank back against the wall, hoping I was too far back to be seen; however, the informer was far too preoccupied to notice me in any event. I heard him mutter something to the effect of "honestly, Locke, pull yourself together, it's not as though you're forgetting her, it's not as though you could" before turning back to the King and holding up the wine bottle in a kind of salute.

"Forget politics," Locke said, "it's your birthday. You're supposed to get utterly sozzled and be showered with useless gifts, not brood about wars and empires. Leave the sneaking to the experts and don't worry your head about it."

His Majesty laughed, and seemed more than happy to change the subject. "I've been getting the useless gifts all day. Let's work more on the drinking."

"Amen." Locke, who seemed to have forgotten his glass on one of the shelves, took a swig directly from the bottle. "I forgot to compliment you on the wine. After years of swilling cheap gin in rookeries from here to Zozo, one really comes to appreciate a good drink."

"Thanks," the King replied. Locke trotted back over to the table and perched himself on his chair (rather unsteadily, as he was nearing the bottom of his wine bottle). "Though, truth to tell..." His Majesty sighed, "...I didn't herd you down here just to talk politics or have a glass of wine." At this, Locke started in surprise and nearly crashed over, but managed to catch himself. The boy's dexterity was impressive. The King, for his part, simply continued as though he had not noticed Locke's reaction (or overreaction, as the case may be). "Honestly, Locke...All the pomp and the formality, the bowing and useless titles...it gets awfully tiresome. I've been King long enough that you're probably the only person left in the world who simply thinks of me as Edgar. Friends -- real friends -- are rare things when you're a ruler...and I wanted to spend some time with my best friend on my birthday, away from all the fawning courtiers and scheming diplomats." The King smiled ruefully. "A bit selfish, really."

"Not at all," Locke replied. He was smiling as well, but it did rather look like he was blushing again. It could have been the light, I suppose, or perhaps the wine.

"And this is the first birthday I've had in a long time that didn't end with me getting melancholy. Birthdays always makes me miss my family...with my parents gone and my brother off to god-knows-where..." Over the duration of this speech, His Majesty had gone through the process of removing the ribbon from his hair; the King has a not-undeserved reputation as a bit of a peacock, and in particular has always been very proud of his bright blond hair -- a Figaro family trait, along with unusually clear blue eyes. They say it represents the golden sands and unclouded sky of the desert, or something silly to that effect. At any rate, the combination is roundly considered to be rather fetching. And His Majesty's young friend was trying very hard not to gawk, and doing an especially poor job of it.

There was really only one apt explanation for the lad's behavior: he was love struck. I had seen the symptoms before. His Majesty is (if I may speak candidly), like many young men his age, an incorrigible flirt. Most girls recognize this and either ignore it or play along, but he has garnered his share of starry-eyed admirers. This was the first time I had ever seen a starry-eyed boy, however. Some people, I suppose, would have been shocked; but I am a scholar and it is my business to be open-minded. And besides, I have rather lost my ability to be shocked after reading all the records of the Usurper Myloch, Eighth King of Figaro (called 'Myloch the Deranged' with ample reason).

But I digress. The King had unbound his hair, and the lad was staring. His Majesty ran his fingers through his hair languidly and regarded his companion. "You'd look less awkward in that getup," he said wryly, "if you'd take off that bandana."

"I took it off for the ball," Locke protested. "Besides, I told you why I wear it."

"Oh, come on," the King said. The wine seemed to be going to his head, and he grinned mischievously. "It makes you look like you mugged a courtier and stole his clothes. Take it off for now." And with that he lunged over the table at Locke, laughing. Locke ducked out of the way and they batted at each other like play-fighting children until Locke caught the King's wrist.

"Now, now, you should know better than to try and catch--" Locke's reply was cut off by His Majesty reaching forward at him. In his current state of coordination, the King succeeded only in upending the table and tumbling forward over it; Locke, still keeping hold of the King's wrist, leapt out of the way. There was an awful crash as the table came down on the glasses and empty bottles (I winced at this -- someone was going to have to clean up all that mess) and the King and his companion landed in a tangled heap just outside the range of the shattered glass.

There was a lengthy pause, long enough that I feared one or both of them might be injured. I was about to reveal myself and ascertain their safety when I realized that they were both laughing too hard to move.

When they had caught their breath, Locke (still pinned by the King) looked up and said "So...was that the legendary royal grace that I've heard charms the girls?" Referring, no doubt, to the King's reputation as something of a heartbreaker.

"I don't know," the King replied with a grin. "Is it working?"

At this point Locke, in rapid succession, blinked, smiled, adopted a look of resolution, and threw his arms around the King to pull him down into a kiss. His Majesty was momentarily startled, but then seemed to decide that his friend really had the right idea and responded enthusiastically.

I am an expert on accounting, not kissing, but it seemed to me that Locke and the King went about it with extraordinary ardor. I clocked them at upwards of two minutes and forty-five seconds before they did anything other than passionately entangle their mouths. When they did eventually part, it was only for His Majesty to murmur something at Locke. Presumably this was regarding the broken-glass hazard, as quite a bit of fumbling and repositioning occurred at this point. They ended up (thankfully) a yard or so from the carnage of the glassware, with the King's back against the bookcase directly to the right of mine. Locke (who had divested himself of his tailcoat en route to the bookcase) wound his fingers in His Majesty's hair and steadied himself with the other hand on a copy of The History of the Great War, Revised (4th edition). They stayed like that, just gazing at each other with slight smiles, for quite a while.

Eventually, the King's companion leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Whatever he said, His Majesty seemed to think it was a good idea as well, for he kissed Locke again and immediately began inexpertly to undo the buttons on Locke's shirt. The other fellow leaned in to bite at His Majesty's collar and say something about not wanting to scuff up such obviously expensive clothes.

At this point I felt it prudent to quietly remove myself from the room and leave His Majesty to his own devices. Since the King's eventful birthday, I have seen His Majesty and Locke slipping away together during the latter's routine visits, and cannot suppress a smile. They need not fear gossip, of course, for I am a man of discretion; but even a dry academic such as myself is allowed moments of sentiment.


End file.
